


Kisses and Whiskey

by Kiwifruitjuice



Category: Avengers, Stucky - Fandom
Genre: 30s Stucky, Best friends love each other, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Great Depression, M/M, Non MCU Compliant, Pining, Protective Bucky Barnes, Romantic Angst, Sick Steve, Stucky - Freeform, Stucky Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension, bucky loves steve, but neither will admit it god damn it, pre winter soldier, pre-serum steve, sacrificial Bucky, steve Rogers is a stubborn shit, steve loves bucky, stucky angst, stucky fluff, unresolved Stucky feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:33:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25332469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiwifruitjuice/pseuds/Kiwifruitjuice
Summary: In the midst of the Great Depression, Bucky knows what keeps him going is his Stevie and a little bit of Whiskey.If only he could tell Steve that.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes, Steve/Bucky, Stucky
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	Kisses and Whiskey

His palm was slippery against Steve’s, not from the precipitation that accumulated on his brow every time he glanced at the lovely man beside him, but from the oil and grease that had long-stained his skin after years of dead-end working at the factory. Boring, it was, but it paid his measly salary that afforded him their own little hole in the back corner of one of the tougher streets in Brooklyn. He’d been saving up for a while to perhaps re-paint his walls that were now sorely yellow from age and smoke, though he supposed it was a fever dream in these times. 

He hadn’t realized he’d been lost in thought again, staring glumly up at the browning sky that melted with the puffs of smoke from factories and chimneys alike, until Steve lightly tapped the tips of his fingers into his hand. 

“Bein’ all smart again?” Steve joked. Bucky swallowed and tried not to wince at the soreness of his throat. He missed the feeling of cool water swishing in his mouth whenever he pleased for it. When he did have it - it was for Steve, and he would accept the meager leftovers, same as any scraps he could scramble together at supper. “S’pose,” Bucky muttered, trying his best to stretch a smile across his cracked lips. It was thin.  
Steve’s own lips faltered and his tongue darted between them to moisten them in the warm air. He opened his mouth for a second, then closed it. They kept walking, keenly aware of their surroundings. The street was beginning to dim as the day began to rest, the sun slowly sinking behind the large buildings of the city. The sky darkened as their steps slowly ventured forward, with no destination. The street under their feet, loosely covered in shoes that dug into their ankles and bit wounds on their toes, felt solid despite the wobbly pavement that ought to have been redone ages ago. But, as Bucky knew, this side of town was not cared for. Poor folk resided here, including himself, and Steve. Though, everyone was poor, now. Bucky let out a huff of amusement at that thought: for all the times he’d been eyed with by the big wigs as he perused the locals and fiddled with his pocket change, he imagined those boys were wallowing themselves now. Just as well. 

“Swear, I can’t ever get you out of that big head of yours,” Steve murmured. 

“Got something to say?” He said, tugging the finger of his companion.

“Yeah,” Steve said, upturning his mouth and raising his eyebrow. Bucky waited, amusement heating his otherwise empty chest. Steve could make a career of his pig-headedness, and that’d be just as well, too. He’d lost his paper route last week to the recession. 

“I-“ Steve faltered. “Hmh. Never-mind, you.” Steve rolled his thin shoulders and turned his head forward, getting lost in his own state of mind. Bucky took this moment to study his friend. He often did it. It seemed he couldn’t quite quit glancing at Steve these days, whenever his stomach could afford it. At the same time his chest quickened upon the sight of him, what little he had eaten that day lurched after the thought of dwelling. 

Steve was small. Always had been. Bucky could hardly forget the day they’d met on the school ground. He could hardly forget the sore bottom he’d gotten from his mother for getting in trouble with the school, too. He didn’t regret it. Steve had left that day with a bruised eye and some sore ribs, and Bucky with a kicked knee, and the two other boys with a mind not to set their sights on Steve again. He supposed that was some ten years ago now. 

Steve hadn’t grown much in that time. Few spare inches probably, setting him at a fair few inches below Bucky still, who was only just as tall as his Pa at seventeen. Bucky smiled softly to himself remembering the little stool on reserve in their kitchen for Steve to reach the cabinets. Their house was looming in the distance, tucked away. A sanctuary. Steve had settled in a few months ago after his Ma passed. Great nurse, she was. Bucky had visited the hospital once to watch Steve when he was younger while she worked, his Pa resting in the ground with a flag over his grave, and watched her with all the sick folk. Nasty disease, Tuberculosis. He’d spent many of his days fearing if Steve, sick and small as he was, would catch it. Never did, and for that Bucky was grateful. His Ma, bless her, didn’t get so lucky. Questions weren’t raised too often about it. S’was only natural now for men to rest together, few could afford anything more. He wondered what’d they say when all this was over. 

Their house was in front of them, now. A shared space, though Steve’s loose papers scribbled with sketches and colours of all kinds littered every area. Steve insisted he’d clean it up soon. Bucky insisted it was fine. 

The front door was in a sorry state, awful squeaky and rotting at the edges. It still closed and opened as it should, so the pair called it good for now. The smell of Luckies and old paint wafted. Steve chucked his shoes on the mat, stuffed with newspaper to fill the empty space and the holes on the bottom. Bucky followed suit, noting the sore knicks on his ankles from his own worn-out boots. No matter, they did their job well enough for now. They could hardly afford new ones. If they could... for Steve, it would be. Always for Steve. Bucky found this didn’t annoy him as it ought to. 

Steve wandered into the tiny, barren kitchen and took inventory of their scraps. Idly leaning against the door frame, his thin coat hanging off his hips looser than it did before, Bucky watched his friend eye the bread that was too awful close to stale. Both men knew chucking it was not an option. Butter for a few slices remained, a few more if they weren’t at all generous with it. Ripe potatoes for stew and some spices to hopefully liven up the meal they had too often nowadays. Bucky mostly left the cooking to Steve now, not that he ought to complain, because Steve did a fine job. A talent from his Ma, he supposed. 

“How much money ya got?” Steve suddenly said. Bucky regained his composure best he could. He had been staring at his friend for a while, hadn’t he? 

Bucky took a moment to recount. “I could spare some if we need some’ore bread,” he answered. He couldn’t. But, he had taken those extra shifts in case he could. It didn’t help none, only exhausted him and gave him a few more measly coins that, really, didn’t go much far. And the bills were looming again. He coulda sworn he just paid them. 

“No,” Steve said, “we’ll be fine. Just askin’.” And Steve left it at that, and promptly sat down on the ancient couch that gave an awful groan for such a small frame. 

“You sure?” Bucky asked. Steve was often sick. Bucky knew in his head that if he was by his ownsome, he’d be better off, money-wise. More than he had did his money go towards medication for his friend. Bucky’d been told by many, that. Not that it mattered to him. He would rot before he let Steve rot in his own body, and that was a fools choice he was happy to make. 

“I’aint sick, Buck,” Steve said with that edge to his tone. A fools choice carin’ for a man as stubborn as his friend. Though, Bucky could tell by his cheeks and neck, red with blood, he was slowly runnin’ a fever. Bucky sighed lowly. The money, he didn’t care much for. His friend, he did. If there was ever a grievance Bucky could do without, it was Steve’s refusin’ help. 

“You’re bad at lyin, y’know. Least to me,” Bucky said, managing an honest almost-happy tone. “I’ll have it soon as I can,” he promised. 

He eyed Steve, waitin’ for the protests, and he saw he almost got them. Much to his luck, his ol’ friend decided to let it go, this time. 

Bucky finally eased his coat off his shoulders, tryin’ his hardest not to show the winces that shuttered up his bones as he moved too quickly. Weeks of working none-stop has taken their toll and he more often started feeling sickly himself. Not feverish, but a dead ache that seemed to accompany him whenever he goes. He slung the mangly thing over a chair and stepped over his saddened floorboards that cried with every step he took until he found his way to the kitchen himself. Like a routine, an inherent movement his body knew now, Bucky swiped the whiskey from the cabinet and took a swig as long as he could afford. It washed down awful, and he gave a sigh in relief. 

He could feel steve peerin’ at him by the shiver on his back. “Want some?”, though he knew the answer. 

“No, thanks,” Steve answered, quietly. Bucky paused and considered another drink, than slowly twisted the cap back onto the bottle. He swallowed dryly.

“I hate you.” 

Bucky smiled wryly to himself and looked down at the bottle. His finger twitched in anticipation, encouraging his mouth to accept the liquid courage he so often needed nowadays to talk any kind of serious with Steve. Perhaps in a smart move, moves he ought to make more often, he closed the cabinet door on the bottle. 

He stepped back from the counter, his hands falling uselessly to his sides. Already his stomach was stinging. He casually walked to the living room and sat down beside his friend, who was staring at him with an equal hatred and love that made Bucky spin all over. God. James couldn’t help but stare into those baby blues, could he? 

“Why’s that?” He asked, licking his dry lips from the brutal warmth outside and the dull whiskey. He ached for a smoke. 

“Ya never listen to me,” Steve muttered, keeping his eyes angry, though his soft, relaxed stature betrayed him. 

“Why would I? Ain’t got anything smart to say, anyway,” Bucky said, letting a loose smile upturn his lips. Steve’s own twitched, and his eyes lost their spark. 

“Jerk.”

“Punk.” 

The two settled in for a moment, letting time tick by, though their wall clock was long broken. Bucky stared into those eyes he looked into every day, feelin’ the same feelin’ that wrestled in his stomach and made his chest lurch something awful. Steve blinked, his eyelashes almost brushing his skin if he weren’t so skinny in the cheeks. Bucky couldn’t explain why he liked his friend’s eyelashes well, so he didn’t bother. 

Bucky found he would soon vomit if his nerves didn’t come down, and decided he needed a smoke. He somehow broke contact and heaved himself up from the couch. 

“Smoke?” He asked. 

“Mhm,” Steve answered.

The pair took to climbing the fire escape long ago when they were kids, only they just started smoking there when Steve moved in. They settled down again, Steve sighing with the cool air hitting his flushed skin. Bucky sparked his Lucky and helped Steve light his. They puffed in a comfortable silence for a while, Bucky being relieved with the nicotine that calmed his stomach, for a bit, anyway. 

Bucky licked his lips, careful not to wet them too much so as to wet the butt of his Lucky. Not much he hated more than that, though he found it didn’t much bother him sharing with Steve, a chronic for that. 

The sky was well dark now, the sun setted behind the dark clouds that often hung in the sky as the factories and the dust gathered as the days flew by. Bucky watched the sight with a keen eye. He ought to know more about stars with how much he liked them, though he supposed he never had the time to learn. 

“Wish the stars were out more,” he said idly. 

“Sure,” Steve answered. 

Bucky turned to him, surprised at the chatter in his voice, and noticed the slight shiver in his limbs. “Shit,” Bucky muttered. He quickly put his Lucky out and stuffed it in his pack, which he stuffed in his pocket. “Sorry, Stevie.”

Steve hummed and gratefully accepted the invitation back inside. Steve gathered himself on the sofa, waiting for the thin blanket from the bed he knew Bucky was getting. He soon found himself wrapped with the thing, his knobbly knees brought up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his torso, his head leaning against the solid mount that was Bucky’s chest. Steve closed his eyes and kept his breathing in rhythm with Bucky’s using the rising beat of his chest to keep it steady. 

Bucky patted his friends back and rubbed it slightly, a comforting move he saw Steve’s Ma do for him a lot. He seemed to like it, snuggling in tighter. Bucky gave a soft laugh and let him drift off in his fever dreams. 

Tomorrow, yeah. He would get Steve’s medication. It meant once he drained the whiskey, and he would in a few days, he couldn’t replace it. Maybe share the smokes for a bit. He’d have to be real careful with bills, or grovel a bit and hope he could get an extension. Again. Troubling times, these were. Only a bastard would say no to an extension. Least he’d comfort himself with that, for now. 

Thinkin’ of the whiskey made his throat hunger for more. He ought not to drink much as he had been, though it seemed the fire in his belly it gave him kept him goin’ sometimes. 

Though, it seemed, again, he couldn’t ignore the warmth in his belly now. Steve was close. He could feel his spine through the blanket, his breaths tumbling down onto his stomach, his poofy, awfully soft hair scratching his chin each time he moved real slight. 

Bucky swallowed and closed his eyes, pinching his nose a bit. He ain’t a fool, and Steve weren’t neither. Now, though, wasn’t a good time. Complications it could only cause, he supposed. Though, it weren’t never a good time for that. 

Bucky opened his eyes and looked down at his friend. Bucky knew his Stevie well enough. He thought Steve could see it, too. If he was wrong, though, it would be the end all of end all’s, and Bucky wasn’t keen on the repercussions. 

Though, Steve had shifted just enough to steady his head better, the corners of his lips pressing down on the dip of Bucky’s neck. The fire in his stomach was blazing and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep it from boiling over. His eyes darted towards Steve’s lips. Cracked and dry in sickness as they may be, they seemed inviting, opened slightly in a way that seemed to call for Bucky’s own. Buck swallowed and closed his eyes again, tightening his hold on Steve’s back as he leaned his neck backward to rest it, intent on sleeping it off. He’d been doin’ that a lot, lately.

Tomorrow he would get the medication.

**Author's Note:**

> Tbh I wrote the beginning paragraphs months ago and I finished the rest now so it’s probably all over the place, sorry. 
> 
> Originally this was gonna be a one time thing but I’d be fine making a few chapters continuing the story if people wanted to see some actual kiss action wink wonk wink wonk
> 
> Or it’s fine if not, like, yknow, whatever and stuff Anyway I will DIE on this ship even if endgame sunk it


End file.
